My Unfamiliar Father One day, my father, whom I had never seen before came home --from America. Instantly I resented him. He was a tall man with premature graying hair and a long mustache. The first time I saw him he lifted me into the air, giving me a big kiss on both cheeks. His mustache tickled me and I disliked it. I began pestering my mother: “Why does one have to have a father?Fathers should stay in America and send money.” Everyone would laugh but I was serious.
Often, father told stories of the marvels to be found in America. He told of a red fruit called pomadore (tomato) which was juicier than an apple, about as big as a large potato, as sweet as sugar. And another huge round fruit called watermelon. Yes, America was a good country but there was no work. So father was forced to come back.
My antagonism to my father did not abate. I would not permit him to touch mother. Whenever I'd find his arm around her, I would force him to free her. I tore at his garments and once I scratched his arm, which produced a spanking. But I persisted in my sole right to mother.
I continue sleeping with her in her bed. But one morning I found my mother in bed with father. This I would not accept! I forced my way into the bed between the two of them. From then on I began to invent mean tricks, making it hard on mother. I would pour porridge over my curly hair or refuse to use the toilet, knowing mother would have to change my underwear. I produced tantrums, loud crying and kicking, at everyone and everything.
